Fault Lines
by Iri168
Summary: "Cause I've been dreaming, kicking, screaming, hopeless and alone." Follow-up to 2x07 The One Who Got Away. Series of oneshots. Rated M for language, etc. Review!
1. Fault Lines

**A/N**

**Hey guys! So, I thought I'd try something new and write Rookie Blue for a change. I was so thoroughly stunned by the latest episode, and it inspired me to write a few things… I hope you enjoy. It's gonna be a series of a few oneshots, starting with this one, which is both Andy and Luke's POV regarding 2x07. I'll take this moment to say that I am quite thoroughly Team Swarek 98% of the time, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up. Hope you enjoy!**

**-Iri**

**(shoutout to any of my friends from over at the Hunger Games fandom!**

**Song: Sick of Dreaming- Alexander Cardinale**

****

****

****

****

_**Cause I've been dreaming, kicking, screaming,**_

_**Hopeless and alone**_

_**Am I breathing**_

_**No more feeling**_

_**Weightless and alone**_

People make mistakes, they fuck up, and every time, it's like a white-hot knife to the heart. And it hurts, oh, God, how it hurts. And little pieces of the heart fracture and fragment and the fault lines remain firmly etched, a forever kind of memory, permanent. Changing everything. But even with the scars, even with the pain and the broken trust and the hurt, in the end, it's the bonds that matter, the bonds between people, between lovers and friends. Human closeness, the knowledge that someone else out there knows, understands, feels, and cares. The feeling of another set of arms, holding tightly on. Another pair of eyes, also streaming tears. There is no substitute for it, no stopping it. No matter the mistake, human closeness remains.

This, she knew.

His ragged breath, the way his normally steady hands shook, violently, his wild eyes roving over her face, the way his whispers of "you're okay," and "look at me," seemed intended to reassure himself just as much as her. The scent of Liam's trademark bourbon still faint on his breath as he cradled her head in his hands, mixing with the mint of his toothpaste, alternately chilling and warming her as it blew across her face. In that moment, she neither remembered nor cared what he'd done. He'd saved her. Luke had saved her. In the back of her brain, a tiny voice whispered that she'd regret this later, when she was alone and reason returned, but in that moment, she couldn't bring herself to care. All that mattered were his hands, still clinging to her like he'd never let go.

He stayed by her side as backup arrived, lights on and sirens squealing. He ripped her free, helped her to her feet, rubbed the circulation back into her wrists. Constantly touching her, stroking her hair, squeezing her hands so tightly in his that she was sure she'd never feel them again. He stayed with her, until he knew for sure that she was going to be okay.

The EMTs gave her the go-ahead to shower and head home, and he let her go without another word, without a protest. She needed the space, he knew. She'd said she wasn't going to be "that girl," and he knew he owed her that much. The biggest mistake he'd ever made, and look what it had almost cost him. Look what he'd so very nearly lost.

So he walked away, got in his car, drove back to the barn. There was one more thing to do. As he sat through the interrogation, he barely listened, let Jo take the lead. Let her figure out what to do with the sick, fucked-up bastard. He was here for the names, and then he was done. It was over, the long night was over, and the victory had been won. It wasn't the euphoric moment he'd so long imagined, and it wasn't the heady thrill of vengeance, as he'd also dared to dream of. Zoe's killer was caught. The quiet victory settled in his chest, solid and comforting. It was finally over, and he was done. So he stared back at Nixon the entire time, calm. Clinical. Detached. He could move on now. It was over. It was over.

"I've made a lot of mistakes, but this is by far the worst. I want her back, and I want you gone."

_**Nothing is the same now…**_

_**Nothing is the same now.**_


	2. Alternatives to Axing

**A/N**

**A second part to my continuing saga of random oneshots re: 2x07. This one involves a bit of 7 and some of 8, particularly the great scene at the end, with Sam and Andy in the training room. Sam POV, enjoy and review!**

**-Iri**

When he'd first figured it out, had that damning revelation… when he'd seen her near-on verbally assault McNally in the parade room… Sam was sure he'd never wanted to deck someone quite so badly. Callaghan would have taken preference- barely- but seeing as he'd slunk away home to lick his wounds, Rosati would have to suffice. Not such a bad trade, really, considering the way she'd been just about throwing herself at the asshole of a detective since she arrived back at 15.

Needless to say, Sam was suddenly very grateful for Shaw's presence at his shoulder, because he didn't think he'd have been able to restrain himself from ripping the woman a new one if they'd been alone. He had yet to hit a woman, and he might have been able to keep it to a verbal barrage, just maybe, but a sharp look from Oliver reminded him of his position.

So he kept his mouth shut, leaned back against the desk, crossed his arms, and fumed silently, unable to resist sending Jo the most mocking look possible when she glanced his way.

The anger had in no way diminished by the end of shift, nor by the next morning, or even the day after that. He doubted he'd ever let go of it completely. Sam Swarek might have been a ladies' man through and through, but he'd never been a cheater. Callaghan, he thought venomously as he stripped down after shift, deserved to be shot, and here he was, moping around and throwing McNally wounded looks like she'd been the one in the wrong.

Nevertheless, he knew it wasn't his place to get involved. He'd said enough, revealed enough, standing in the rain with the cruiser door pressing sharply into his spine and a sick sense of realization in his stomach. The time for grand declarations and calling-outs was over. McNally was a big girl, and Sam knew without a doubt that she could more than handle herself.

So he took a step back, kept his mouth shut, and did his best to remain firmly in his detached, slightly smart-alecky role as partner and general pain in the ass. He put up with nearly three weeks of stiff silences, snappy retorts, and forced smiles whenever Diaz and Epstein did something stupid. He was just glad to see she had enough attitude left to handle him, because without her trademark sass, he'd have been seriously concerned.

Still, enough was enough. At some point, it was time to step in. He wasn't going to deny that her biting wit was helpful in her work, but it was going to get her in trouble, and that was where he drew the line. He was her partner, after all. It was practically in his job description to keep her from doing anything stupid. This was just a slight stretching of the rules. Necessary.

"You need an axe," he suggested, half-seriously, and while Sam knew she'd never actually go at it with Rosati's desk- although who ever really knew, with McNally?- he figured the sooner he found her an outlet, the better. So he tossed her the gloves and did the one thing he knew he was good at: getting under her skin. Taunted her, until she took up the challenge and socked him a good one.

He played hurt for a few seconds, but he couldn't keep the grin off his face. _There_ was his rookie. Within minutes, he had her laughing and making jokes and looking less like the bitter, dried-out version of herself she'd been lately. Hand cream or not.

And no lethal weapons had been required. A good day.

**See that button down there? You should press it!**

**V**

**V**

**V**

**V**

**V**


End file.
